Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Uh, sure. I guess.”

  “So what do you think of your Hoop?”

  “I haven't seen that much of it, and most of that's been bad spots.”

  Tinker Bell whirled into Kermit the Frog, who hung there, feet paddling slowly as if treading water. “True. Trub's been taking you on the ‘meet the pukes’ tour. Sorry. But enough about you. What do you think about us?”

  I struggled to shift mental gears. “You mean your, uh, species?”

  Kermit shrugged. “You could start there.”

  “But I've only met you.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said uncertainly.

  “Interesting.” A tiny clipboard appeared in one of Kermit's flippers, a pencil in the other. He licked the tip of the pencil and made a notation on the clipboard, then regarded me askance. “Any second thoughts about your answer?”

  “My brain hurts,” I sighed.

  “Points for the Monty Python reference. You may be a lumberjack after all.” With that Kermit vanished, leaving the tiny clipboard hanging in the air. It sprouted a tiny propeller, flew to the side of the capsule, merged with the white stuff, and was gone.

  “My brain hurts,” I said again.

  “It would be a good idea to sit down, or your butt will too.” Orchid's voice seemed to come from every surface of the capsule.

  “Why?” I asked, trying to pull myself into a sitting position.

  “Because,” Orchid said.

  “Welcome back, kid.”

  * * * *

  “Back where?” I mumbled, looking around and trying to figure out where the hell I was now. One second I'd been inside that capsule and trying to sit on thin air, the next I was sitting beside Trub. We were perched atop a low hill, surrounded by rolling, unformed white terrain on all sides. In front of me the Hoop narrowed and curved down into the horizon.

  “Unused segment about a quarter of the way around from High Vista. I come here sometimes when I need some peace and quiet. I thought you might need a break.”

  “Thanks.” It was peaceful, white, and silent. It occurred to me that I'd never experienced quiet like this back in the city. There was always some sound somewhere: muffled voices; the buzz, whirr, and beep of electronics; distant sirens and engines; the guts of the city rumbling.

  I looked Trub over, relieved to see that she appeared unhurt. “You okay?”

  “Better than okay.”

  “You sure?”

  A loopy grin. “Oh yeah. I cleaned Sarah's clock and slapped some hurt on a couple of her girls. Sorry to send you away when things were getting interesting, but I didn't want you getting banged up.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “No problem.” She gestured toward the ground between us. “I grabbed some brunch on the way here. The mug is coffee. Be careful, it's still hot.”

  As soon as she mentioned the food and coffee, I started smelling it. There was a woven leaf bowl, a Venusian takeout container filled with what looked like deep-fried fritters. I helped myself to one, took a bite. My mouth filled with the taste of banana and spices.

  Trub took a sip of her coffee, smacked her lips. “Yeah, it was definitely worth a detour through Upper Jolta.”

  “Through where?” I asked, putting down the fritter and picking up my own mug.

  “Segment area they call Upper Jolta. Couple things you have to understand about the Hoop. Quite often people end up in a specific segment not on the basis of race or nationality or religion, but because of affinity. Take Jolta. There are people there from Kenya. From Hawaii. From Ethiopia and Turkey, Seattle and Brunei and dozens of other places. The Jolt veers toward total anarchy on a regular basis because they don't agree on politics or religion or social norms or much else. But they share one unifying focus and fixation: that's the breeding, growing, processing, and then the brewing and consuming of the best coffee in the universe.”

  I took a sip of the hot liquid. My taste buds began singing a hallelujah chorus. “Jeez,” I said hoarsely. “They might just get there.”

  “I'm sure rooting for them. You saw Rice City. They're into rice like Upper Jolta is into coffee; for them, rice is like a religion. There are two communities turning into wine drinkers’ paradises. One place is building a giant library. There's a town that wants to become the porn capitol of Venus, and another where the main industry is constructing crossword puzzles. These places trade back and forth—once you've been here a while you can get mystery doors to take you certain places, and wells can tell you where to go on the Hoop to find certain things. Centralized and scattered, almost everything people did back on Earth is being done here, with some using the advantages this place offers to take it to the max.”

  I put down my cup. There seemed to be a hole in her explanation. “That's real nice, but there's something I don't get. Back home the—” I caught myself before I called them Bug Traps. “—transport booths supposedly reject some people. Ones who are too militant, too violent, too criminal, too crazy. So how did people like Poppa Poppy and that preacher, and Sarah and Cyrus make it through?”

  “They weren't that bad when they came here.” She spread her arms to take in the unformed terrain around us. “This place offers a fresh start. A place to rebuild your life from scratch, leaving behind a lot of the baggage and limitations that had kept you down. Some folks take that and run with it, but not everybody runs in a straight line.”

  That made sense. Some people ruined their lives after winning the lottery, or went bad after gaining some position of power.

  “So why do, uh, our hosts allow Cyrus and Poppa Poppy to get away with such nasty shit?”

  “Are you suggesting that the B'hlug should play Big Brother?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “I thought you posto types were against that sort of thing.”

  That made me think, and think hard. A slug of the excellent coffee helped. While I worked that out, Trub helped herself to the food. She ate with gusto. She seemed to do everything with gusto. It occurred to me that she was happy with what she was doing. It was hacker happy; she'd growl and groan, bitch and moan, but she would fling herself into a problem totally, and it was the solving of that problem—no matter how hard—that brought her pleasure. Only she was hacking the Hoop.

  “So,” she said after a couple minutes. “Light starting to dawn, kid?”

  “Maybe a little. There are regulations, but they're as simple and minimalist as possible. The, ah, B'hlug want to see how we act and behave with as few rules and controls as possible.”

  “You got it. Take Poppa Poppy. He wants to grow drugs, stay loboto, trade them for what he needs and wants? That's not a good thing, but it's allowed. But trading drugs for kids? Not here. Same for Pastor Pureway—whose real name, by the way, is Dickie Mangle. He wants to create a mean little cult based on lies? He can go for it. People want to join? Hey, it's a free planet, and stupid hasn't been outlawed. They smarten up and want to bail? There's a doorway to someplace else just waiting. There are some fairly nasty places here on the Hoop—affinity runs both ways—but on the whole people are using their new lives here to do some very cool things. It's a decent place.”

  “Because you help keep it decent. So come on, what are you, really? You're a cop, aren't you?”

  “Sometimes I'm a cop, sure. Sometimes a go-between and mediator. A troubleshooter and peacekeeper. Sometimes judge and jury.” She chuckled. “But what I mostly am is busy.”

  “I see that. How many places are you keeping track of?”

  “Hundreds. Sometimes it's individuals, sometimes communities, sometimes whole segments.”

  “Sounds like a big job. You can't be the only one doing it.”

  “There are a couple others. We're spread pretty thin.”

  “I bet.” Considering the sheer size of the Hoop that was something of an understatement, like one cop per borough or one security guard per mall.

  Trub drained her coffee, stuffed a couple of the leftovers in he
r satchel, then stood up. “Ready to get moving?”

  “I guess.” I finished off my own coffee and climbed to my feet. “Where are we going next?”

  “You'll see.”

  I peered at her. “Is this whole never giving a straight answer part of your job or just a bad habit?”

  She laughed and winked her good eye.

  “I'll never tell.”

  * * * *

  I figured our next stop would be another trouble spot.

  I had to wonder why I was getting this crazy tour, from this particular tour guide. Maybe because they had me pegged as a potential troublemaker, and this was their subtle way of warning me what I'd be facing if I got out of line.

  I sure didn't want Trub as an adversary.

  In fact, I was starting to think of her as a friend.

  * * * *

  We arrived someplace where it was really dark. Dark, and much smellier than the inside of Poppa Poppy's crib.

  “Lights,” Trub said.

  The floor under us began to glow, softly at first, then more brightly. It was more white hoopstuff. The stink reminded me of something, and then there was this low background sound, like—

  “We're back on Earth,” I said in surprise. “Right?”

  “You're pretty sharp, kid. We're back in the bad old Big Apple.”

  “So why are we here?” I tried to think of a reason crazy enough to make sense to Trub and the B'hlug. “To get bagels?”

  “A nice bagel would be good, but that's not it. Any other ideas?”

  I tried to read her scarred face, failed. “I've, um, been rejected for Venus?”

  She shook her head. Not that. A relief . . . I guess.

  “You . . . you also troubleshoot here?”

  That made her laugh. “Hell no! I've got more than enough to keep me occupied back in the Hoop.”

  “Wait, I've got it! You're trying to confuse me!”

  Her smile was kindly, maybe even fond. “Not on purpose. We're here to meet someone.” She raised her voice. “Roberta, you here?”

  "All along," said a low husky voice from one of the dark corners.

  I watched a vague gray shape materialize from the gloom, take human form, then with a shimmer of nanocamo turn into a New York City cop. A particular cop, the black woman with the spiked yellow hair who had so dogged me in the hours before I ended up in the Bug Trap.

  Trub grinned. “How you doing, sistra?”

  The cop shrugged. “You know how it is. Win some, lose some. Keep moving and don't look back.”

  “I hear that. Well, I've got to tell you, you sure know how to pick them.”

  The cop—Roberta—turned to peer at me like a misparked car. “I admit that he's a pretty ragass specimen, but the pickings are pretty slim.”

  “Well, I've brought him back to you.”

  Roberta didn't look overjoyed. “I think I would have preferred some of Lee's rice beer.”

  “Maybe next time. Besides, there's nothing keeping you from going out and getting your own.”

  A shrug. “I'm pretty busy, Trub.”

  I broke into this strange girltalk. I had a lot of questions, but what I'd just heard sorted one in particular to the top of the pile. “You've been out there?”

  Roberta nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And you came back here?”

  “Man, can't slip nothing past you, can we?”

  Trub laid a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, we shouldn't bust your chops like this. Think of it as an occupational hazard.”

  “Yeah,” Roberta agreed glumly. “Like getting shot at and shat on.” She shook her head. “If it weren't for the glamour I might just start getting dissatisfied.”

  Trub faced me squarely, her expression turning serious. “Here's the deal, Glyph. You're being offered a job.”

  “With the NYPD?” I said uncertainly.

  Roberta shook her head. “Somehow I don't see you fitting into dress blues.”

  “That's good. I don't see me being a cop either.”

  “Affinity,” Trub said. “I've kept mentioning it, right?”

  “More than once.”

  “Well?”

  I tried to figure out what she was getting at. Only one idea came to mind, one that had to be wrong. I wasn't going to just blurt it out, but sneak up on it.

  “I ended up following you around to see what your job involves . . .”

  An expectant stare. “And?”

  “To see if I could do it too?”

  “Damn,” Roberta drawled. “He is smarter than he looks. A good thing too.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, holding up my hands. “This is crazy. I'm not a cop. I've never been a soldier. I'm a posto!"

  Trub shook her head. “You don't need to have worn a uniform. What you need is a sense of right and wrong and a willingness to pitch in when bad stuff seems to be getting the upper hand. An unease with authority. An ability to think fast and talk even faster.” She glanced at Roberta. “The siege of High Vista is over. This guy scammed Cyrus Crook and his merry band of dickheads into going chasing after an imaginary giant wishing well. Things got a bit out of control when he tried to deal with Sarah and her girls, but he done good. My advice, don't play poker with him.”

  “But things did get out of control,” I protested. “That one woman nearly got me. I'm not strong or tough like either of you. Let's face it, I'm the least macho one here.”

  “Hey,” Trub said, “we all have limitations. Me, I have to work hard to keep myself from kicking ass first and asking questions later. You, on the other hand, need to work on your head-knocking skills.”

  “That's where I come in,” Roberta said. “You're going to be my student for a while. I'll teach you basic police skills. Tactics. Self-defense. Weapons and hand-to-hand combat. When I'm done with you there's a chance you might be half as bad as Trub or me. Not much of one, but we'll try.”

  “I still don't get it,” I said. “Why aren't you on the Hoop working with Trub? Didn't you like it out there?”

  The policewoman smiled. “I liked it just fine. It's just I still have work to do down here. Part of that work is helping move along people who ought to find their way out there. I figure working here a few more years, then going up permanently rather than commuting.”

  Every time I thought I had a handle on the situation it turned to soap in the shower. “Commuting?”

  “Sure. I have an apartment in Soho, and a little hideaway in a sparsely inhabited segment. Can you believe it? I get better phone reception in the Hoop than here in Queens.”

  “So am I going to be here, there, or where?”

  “Both,” Trub said. She stuck out her hand. I took it. “I gotta run. See you somewhere down the rabbit hole, right?”

  “Uh, sure. Thanks, I guess.”

  “You're welcome.” She called for transport, stepped through the door that appeared, vanished.

  “Well, stud,” Roberta said, “you've had one mind-fuck of a day, haven't you? Chased, shot, beamed to the Hoop to hang with Trub, and now dumped on my doorstep.”

  “I sure have.” Her recap reminded me of the problems that had sent me into the Bug Trap. “What about the Chrome Lords? And your friends on the force? How am I going to hide from them?”

  “Won't need to.” She gestured toward the white ring on one finger. I realized that she was wearing one too. “Thanks to the tech in that thing, even your own mother wouldn't recognize you. But you do have to drop that handle.”

  “Any suggestions? Just don't say kid. Or stud.”

  “We'll figure out something. One other thing. I think you had better stop with the posto.”

  I shook my head. “Not happening. In fact . . .”

  I pulled out my Rollox, whipped up a quick wordup. Synched it with my dipstick. Pointed that at the nearest wall.

  Ka-whuff! It blasted out a cloud of nano-ink, slapping a posto.

  The message, in ornate letters a foot high, read: Venus needs YOU and YOU need Venus!
/>   “Well?” I said.

  “Needs work,” she said. “Come on, Tonto, we got no end of things to get done.”

  I nodded and followed the policewoman back out onto the city streets. I fingered the white ring Trub had given me.

  Roberta was right. There was more to do than I'd ever guessed, in more places than I'd ever imagined.

  I was caught in the Bug Trap for good now.

  Copyright © 2010 Stephen L. Burns

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  * * *

  Short Story: THE SINGLE LARRY TI, OR FEAR OF BLACK HOLES AND KEN

  by Brenda Cooper

  Facts are not determined by consensus, but science interacts with people in a complex array of ways.

  Salt-sweat dotted my forehead by the time I neared the last demonstrator in line, an old Asian woman with a hand-painted sign that looked too heavy for her. Indeed, her arms shook. The sign said NO SINGLE LARRY TI.

  The benefits of globalization: bastardized spelling. I pictured a single white guy named Larry in a ragged t-shirt. I wanted to laugh—needed to laugh—but the look on her face stopped me. Fear was fear, and her thin pale lips and wide dark eyes with fist-sized circles under them screamed quietly. She even smelled like fear: adrenaline-sour sweat mixed with something antiseptic. I smiled at her, my hand brushing her shoulder as I whispered, “It will be all right. We won't eat the Moon.”

  Her spittle on my hand was warm, and I wiped it quickly on the back of her dirty gray blouse, a reflex. Cameras snapped, catching the back of my hand sliding against her rough shirt. A deep breath enabled me to quell the urge to run from the reporters. I fixed my eyes on the courthouse in front of me, a rounded faux-brick building with open windows that spiraled up its smooth outer surface.

  If I looked up at the building I didn't have to meet any reporter's eyes. Ten steps.

  I ignored the reporter's buzzing lips, their questions nonsense garbled on nonsense. A deep male voice screamed above the crowd. “Save us, Mary! Recant!”

  Twenty steps and then five more. I passed through the line of rainbow-clad UN policemen into near silence. No voices, just the buzz of swarm cams for a few more steps before they, too, gave up.